I screwed my eyes shut and tried hysterically to think of boring and disgusting things. Nothing occurred. My consciousness was as full as my pussy, now with three probing fingers inside, full of him and his diabolical workings on my sex. I jiggled my bum frantically, trying to push him away, but there was no chance of that. He had me in a strong and capable grasp, one hand on the small of my back, massaging me into helpless compliance while the other finger-fucked me with exquisite finesse.
Mustn’t come, mustn’t come, mustn’t come.
“If you come, I’ll have to use my belt on you, you know.”
I came.
He used his belt on me. It left a sharp, sweet, hot sting and neat, red lines on my backside, lines that I would touch and gaze at in my bedroom mirror for a long time that night. But I wouldn’t follow my urges and masturbate over it. Oh no. I wouldn’t dare.
“You’re doing well, Lara,” he said gravely, once I had sat my aching behind down on the chair next to his, hands folded demurely in lap, flaming face pointing down. “Don’t think that you aren’t. I’m delighted to see how much you’ve achieved in this relatively brief space of time. But there is always room for improvement—and sustaining this level of improvement is very hard. I will expect a few falls from grace along the road. Just remember to be honest with me about them, or it will certainly go worse with you. Let’s say that I know of things that are a lot worse than the palm of my hand, or even my belt.”
I yipped and looked up at his face, so placid in its sternness, so relaxed in its authority. He meant it.
“Were you always like this?”
“I’m sorry?”
“So…self-contained. And self-controlled. And bloody efficient! You’re almost…” I tailed off, realising that it would be rather hurtful to liken him to a robot.
“Almost what?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Just unusual. An unusual person.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he said, one eyebrow raised, inspecting his palm for damage. It was almost as red as my backside. There was a slightly awkward silence, then he spoke again. “But actually the answer to your question is ‘no.’ No, I wasn’t always like this.”
“You…taught yourself?”
“Trained myself. Yes. It was a case of having to. When you hit rock bottom, there’s only one way up. But there’s also the possibility of floundering on at rock bottom. I did that for a few years and then realised I didn’t have to.”
I was utterly intrigued. I imagined Dexter sleeping under cardboard in a railway arch or lying in some crackhouse with a needle in his arm. Surely he couldn’t have ever…
“I can’t imagine you being sloppy and disorganised,” I told him, overlaying my tragic imaginings with some light chat before they disturbed me too much.
“I was. More the result of circumstances than natural inclination. All the same, it couldn’t go on.”
“How did you change? You didn’t have someone to spank you, did you?” The idea amused me and I giggled girlishly.
“No, Lara, I did not.” He rolled his eyes, almost affectionately, then, just as suddenly as it had opened, the door to Dexter slammed shut. “My shady past isn’t relevant to the here and now. What matters is that you benefit from my experiences. And my refusal to accept anything but your best efforts. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” I grouched.
“I’m not sure I cared for your tone, Lara. Are we clear?”
I sighed. “Yes. Crystal. So what are my targets for next week?”
* * * *
As the spankings mounted up, my infatuation with the spanker intensified. I didn’t make the elementary mistake of deliberately messing up, and I was as honest as I could be, but I just wasn’t very good at the whole being-in-control-of-my-life thing, and most meetings ended with me rubbing my bottom and promising myself that I would do better whilst orgasmic stars circled my head. And after he left, I watched him from my window, striding down the street, so full of purpose and sureness, not an inch of doubt to be seen, and I longed for him.
I tried to find things out about him—sly questions, stealthy peeks into his bag—but he was as tight clamped as a clam, a real man of mystery. Who are you, Dexter? I asked my pillow before resisting the urge to let my fingers relieve some of my sexual and emotional tension and flick furiously to a rerun of the last spanking, with a slightly different ending of my own tacked on.
“Do you spank your girlfriend?” I asked him, a bit desperately, on our seventh day of reckoning, once I had been allowed off his knee. It was a serious omission so he’d used a paddle this time, and I felt roasted, my bottom raging hard against the wooden kitchen seat.
“Get on your knees,” he commanded non sequiturially, unbuttoning to demonstrate that he expected me to show my gratitude for his discipline in our newly established way.
“I think you need to get on the phone to the Electricity Company straight away, young lady, never mind idle chit-chat,” he growled.
I lowered my mouth obediently over his substantial erection.